The Distant Metropolis
The house was holding its breath. We sat at the long oak table, the one my grandfather had carved from a single slab of white oak in the winter of his forty-second year, and the silence stretched across the varnished surface like a film of dust. It was a banquet of sorts, though there was no food, only the heavy, cloying scent of beeswax polish and the faint, metallic tang of anxiety that...
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